


Temples

by lightningwaltz



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Emotional Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9475331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: Even in a rebellion, there are little oases of quiet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ApexOnHigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/gifts).



> Written for the amazing prompt: _For something less fluffy and more smutty/angsty: Chirrut has a vision and knows they are going to their death on this mission to get the Death Star plans. He wants to be with Baze one last time to savor everything he can about his lover and take those memories with him into whatever may follow._
> 
> Thank you so much for asking for this scenario, I loved writing this.
> 
> Side note: The Rogue One novelization has this fascinating detail that Chirrut is so disciplined that he can't feel pain. That ended up making its way into this fic.

Even in a rebellion, there are little oases of quiet. In the hours before Jyn must address a hastily assembled council, Chirrut elects to climb one of the failed ziggurats of Yavin 4. Baze trails him the way scent and heat follow the coals in a brazier. 

Since Jedha's annihilation, Chirrut has fixated on the simplicity of sensation. On Yavin 4, growth and decay co-exist, intertwining with the air and wind. More things have lived and died on this moon than existed on Jedha in its entire existence. The vast majority of such things are likely microscopic, purely attuned to the will of the Force in a way that more sentient beings have forgotten. 

Water is the reason for this profusion of life. The ziggurat's steps are slick with it, even though there has been no rain since his arrival here. It's as though these stones contain the memory of rain and wish to reflect it back to the universe. 

Baze isn't happy about the slippery surfaces. That would be a certainty even _if_ he wasn't making grumbly, scoffing noises. Which he does. With a hilarious degree of enthusiasm. 

"What if you crack your head open and I have to carry your body back?" 

_Oh, that wouldn't be necessary. My body would just be an empty shell at that point._

"You can just smirk knowingly at the rebels and allow people to speculate about the enigmatic treachery of the people of Jedha. They seem like they're in need of gossip here." 

"Hmph. A lot of young people, packed together, and worried if their next mission is their last? I'm sure _plenty_ happens here that's worthy of gossip." 

With anyone else, Chirrut might wonder if he had pushed things too far, mentioning their eternal home. Mentioning this catastrophe that's so tangible it practically has a taste- a scent- a sound of its very own. 

With Baze, though, he can keep walking, up and up, until the steps are no more. There's no gradual decline of shattered rock and treacherous crevices. They just vanish. 

"There's still a bit more left, isn't there?"

"Yes, but the top is sloping downwards. Doesn't match the precision of the great temple." 

How strange, talking about a temple. On Jedha there had only been the one. Its name had been somewhat redundant, but names often were. 

"I heard that these were built thousands of years ago by people enslaved by the Sith."

Baze just grunts, probably unable to relax until they're on lower and firmer ground. Chirrut wants to remind him that the ground is clogged with mud and vegetation and sure footing is impossible. 

"And this one was supposed to be the great ziggurat, but their architects made an error and so this building had to be abandoned." No one had told Chirrut this. He had simply felt it, step-by-step, the plodding of his feet creating a song of their own. And that melody had spoken to structural integrity and a failure of engineering. No one had formally worshiped in this temple, but they had murmured frantic prayers. Asking for one more year, one more day, one more second. When their souls flowed back into the Force, he knows they experienced something other than fear, finally, at last. And he can take joy in that. 

But still, their sadness is enshrined in these walls. It clogs his senses, but it doesn't chase him away.

During their descent, Chirrut ducks into the interior of the ziggurat. The sound of the wind had alerted him to the doors dotting the sides of the steps, like something had been calling to him. 

"I wish you would signal when you do things like this," Baze gripes. There's a humming sound as he turns on a lamp.

Chirrut just laughs, and starts to use his arms to indicate every time he turns left or right down some hallway. 

"Okay, okay, you made your point!" 

It's little more than an empty labyrinth, and eventually Chirrut's journey ends in a room. He knows every room is exactly like it. Bare, small, amplifying footsteps. He sits, appreciating the austere hardness of the floor. It allowed for no comforts other than the sound of one's thoughts.

And maybe the presence of a companion; Baze joins him there, silent and waiting, as Chirrut's mantra weaves and slides around the two of them. 

"A temple with no acolytes," Chirrut says, and it's an abrupt knife, slicing its way through his chant. Baze flinches, judging by the way his armor thuds against the wall. "I guess that makes it an appropriate place for acolytes without a temple." 

"Chirrut." Just a few days ago, Baze would have protested the label of acolyte. In a few days he might again. For now, though, Chirrut's name seems to be his mantra. 

On Jedha, winters had been snowless, but very, very cold. Even before gales swept over the steppes, their approach rang out in his body. Like breath in his lungs. Like the sensation of his blinking eyelids. It's like that now, even on this moon that clearly had never experienced a winter at all. 

"Baze." 

He's matching his companion, prayer for prayer, but his response had been so slow that it must have sounded like a question.

"Yes? What?" 

Ah, well. "Take off your armor." 

_No one_ else would dream of asking that of Baze let alone demanding it (even if it's couched in an ingratiating smile.) But Chirrut can, and he appreciates it for the wonder that it is. He listens with almost unbearable affection at the sound of metal clicking free. 

Desire is the root of pain, but desiring Baze has never caused him pain. He ponders this mystery- for the thousand time- as he crawls into Baze's lap. His shirt below is soaked with sweat; a side effect of their hike. Chirrut helps pull it off, before sinking his hands into Baze's hair. It's long, and tangled. Since he abandoned his faith, Baze has never cut it. Each inch of it should feel like apostasy in Chirrut's hands. Instead, it's always a delight to sink his hands into it.

"What's gotten into you?" Baze asks, like he isn't in a hurry to undo Chirrut's ties. "And don't say 'hopefully, you.' That was old years ago." 

"Do I need a reason?" Chirrut's smile is so bright he can tell it would have been almost painful, once. And then it melts into kissing.

When they lie down on the floor, Baze pulls Chirrut on top. Protecting him from the rough floor, presumably, even though he knows full well that isn't possible. So he shoves and pushes, until Baze is on top. An anchoring weight on top of Chirrut. Warm, like the kyber crystals that used to illuminate their temple, before that had been mutated. Turned into the agent of Jedha's destruction. 

They move together, stroking each other with the ease of long practice. But there's nothing complacent or simple about their encounter. This is an homage to what was lost. But, as their slide closer and closer to the edge, Chirrut also knows he's worshiping everything he's always had in Baze. This is the one realm in which he allows himself to be even a little sacrilegious. 

When Baze comes, he forgets his own protective impulses long enough to bite Chirrut in the shoulder. And Chirrut allows pain to exist, for this single instant. He revels in the slight sting in his skin until his own climax carries him away. 

In the aftermath, Baze is running his hands up and down Chirrut's back. Chirrut holds on tight, glad they've contributed something other than suffering to this temple.

"I wonder if dying feels like that," he muses. What would happen if he started braiding Baze's hair, right now? He's almost elated enough to try.

Baze snorts. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Oh, trust me. You should."


End file.
